Eternity Interval
by Valdryfor
Summary: Due to the tragic effects of the Courier's severe brain damage, Cass never saw him as anything more than a handicapped friend. However, once he regains his former intelligence through surgical augmentation, she begins to see the man he once was, the renowned life he'd left behind, and the emerging magnetism that draws her to him. If only eternity lasted… but this interval must end.


**Chapter 1**

A foreboding atmosphere had taken residence in the suite, supplementing the taut silence that had everyone's nerves on edge.

Cass sat back in her chair, legs propped up on the table as she idly shuffled the grimy deck of cards over and over. Her hat sat next to her empty glass, and she eyed the refrigerator at the end of the kitchen, but Veronica's disapproving stare dissuaded her from grabbing another bottle. She scowled at the Brotherhood scribe, who stood with her arms crossed near the doorway.

"What's with that look, Santangelo? Arcade been telling you horror stories about my liver or something?" Cass drawled, flicking a piece of crusted food from one of the cards.

"At least try to stay sober for today," Veronica replied as she glanced into the foyer. "_He's_ due to wake up at any minute."

The deck slammed into the table, visibly startling her.

"Why the hell does that mean I can't have another drink?" Cass demanded, brushing back wisps of red hair that had escaped from her messy updo. "Even if the fucking implant does work. He'll still remember I'm a drunk ass bitch, right?"

"Yeah, but don't you want to greet him without slurring and stumbling all over the place? I mean, this might be the first time we actually get to see him as himself. Before that shot to the head and all."

"And I should care about that because…?"

Veronica pulled down her tattered hood and frowned at the other woman. "Because you know how he feels about you. Just in case the rest of us haven't made it clear, he went through with this procedure just for you."

A loud thud filled the room as Cass swung her legs from the table and leaned forward in her seat. "I didn't ask him to do it, did I?" she asked, the tremor in her voice low and angry. "Now we're all waiting around to see if he even survives the fucking surgery. Unnecessary anxiety for us, and he didn't even need it. So what if that bullet scrambled his brain? I heard he was some hotshot marksman back in New Mexico, and muscle memory don't lie, sweetheart."

She fumed as she thought of the Courier's almost savant-like shooting skills. The man could barely string two coherent sentences together, but when he held a gun in his hand, he owned the Mojave with the twitch of a finger. Enemies fell by the dozens if they spent even a fraction of a second in his line of fire. He never demonstrated the style he'd been known for during his alleged glory days, but he never missed, either. And now, for reasons she only partially fathomed, he had chosen to undergo further cranial trauma to try to fix what had been lost.

"The fact that you're worried just proves that you do care," Veronica remarked, sounding so sly that Cass wanted to throttle her. She shifted from her position and stepped toward the exit. "I can't take another minute of this pressure, though. I'm going to see if Arcade will let me sit in the room with them."

"Yeah, you do that," Cass snapped, rising to her feet.

"No sneaking booze while I'm gone," the scribe called back. "I'm sure Callum will want to see you sans inebriation."

Cass seethed on the spot and muttered, "Fuck that," but made no further move toward the refrigerator.

She hated how the others habitually commented on her role in Callum's decision, as if she'd had any responsibility in it. So he had a small crush on her, so what? She'd never egged the poor guy on, never given any indication that she welcomed his affections. To be blunt, she wasn't even sure if he possessed the capabilities to feel true romantic emotion anymore. She admitted to having little experience around mentally handicapped individuals, but if she had to judge by his perpetual state of disorientation and childlike thinking pattern, she would have pegged him as somewhere between a standard gecko and 1st Recon's Ten of Spades on the Romeo scale. And that was a generous assessment.

Sighing, she bent down and braced herself over the surface of the table. Veronica did have a point. The apprehension Cass felt centered more on typical concern for a friend, but it affected her regardless. As limited as Callum's communication abilities were, he'd managed to bring all of them together through his genial demeanor and calming presence. She sensed her temper receding as she considered his natural charm, a trait left over from a past personality. He might have appealed to her if they'd met a long time ago, back before she became a washed-up ex-caravan owner, and before he'd taken a bullet to the head.

Cass's share of men spanned a history of half-remembered names and faces, but as far as looks went, Callum might have stood out. Her features softened as his deep green eyes came to mind, the shade an exact match of hers, but freckled with gold during bouts of mirth. His facial bone structure remained one of his most striking assets, and she'd caught herself studying the planes of his cheekbones and jaw more than once. The slight bump on the bridge of his nose suggested a healed break, but it gave him character, the type of imperfection that enhanced instead of detracted. For a man in the thirty to forty age range, he retained a boyish tinge to his smile, and while his physique lacked mass, he could have physically overpowered her in a different time.

She shook herself out of that train of thought, uncomfortable with where it had been heading. As appealing as she may have found him under vastly different circumstances, reality kept her grounded. His brain trauma included compromised motor and language skills, and whatever disposition had been there before, that fateful shot had erased it.

His permanent expression consisted of a twisted grimace that left his lips chapped and sometimes cracked. Various creases and wrinkles lined his face from his forehead to his mouth, eclipsing the attractive quality of his eyes. He kept his blond hair chin-length and straggly, possibly to hide the conspicuous gunshot scar on his head, as well as several other blemishes marring his cheeks. Cass always found his posture and gait troublesome, as he had lost the ability to walk straight. His feet dragged along in a stilted pattern, his shoulders sloping at an angle that favored one side over the other. The stiffness of his frame somehow eased whenever he engaged enemies, but in all other situations, he moved like a rickety wind-up doll ready to collapse.

Cass pushed back an overwhelming wave of pity as she contemplated the probable joint pain. There was also the issue of his damaged language center and intellect. His residual ability to think and reason comprised only basic needs, plus the ingrained talent of handling firearms. Critical thinking no longer functioned, and social skills now equated to simple words and phrases. A drawling lisp only made him harder to understand, but the smooth hum of his deep voice did make the deciphering process more bearable.

And then came the hints of Callum's infatuation with her.

Whether intentional or not, he displayed his feelings in a blatant fashion, often gluing himself to her side and giving her an assortment of tokens as gifts. She rejected half of them, only accepting the bottles of alcohol she could share with the rest of their companions. He put forth a lot of obvious effort in attempting to speak to her, and she took note of his frustration with himself during every occurrence.

"_What is it, Callum?"_

"_Cass, pretty. I give… hear. Have art. Hard? Give. Have you. I haaarrrr… give. Have…" he'd garbled before trailing off and thumping his head with his palm._

_She had exhaled impatiently and shifted her line of sight back to the campfire. "Just cut it out before you hurt yourself, Casanova."_

_He went still. "Hurt."_

"_What?"_

"_Hur… haarrr…" Then he stopped, eyes focusing clearly in the firelight. "Heart, Cass."_

She stood upright and stepped back from the table, a dull throb echoing in her chest. If this implant did work, she just hoped it gave him what he needed to overcome his disabilities. Although she didn't plan on becoming any more receptive to his advances, and she still felt he shouldn't have placed himself at medical risk again, she preferred this method over his acute Mentats abuse several months back.

Cass's jaw clenched as she recalled the instance. He had approached her, seeming oddly intent and assertive. Some of the irregular ambling had given way to a burgeoning strut, and his body moved in an almost normal manner. She'd been sitting at the bar of the Aces Theater, holding out a lighter to one of the smoking patrons. And as the music continued on stage, she watched Callum take the seat next to her, the grimace absent from his face.

He hadn't said a word. The snarky quip had died in her throat when she noticed the drastic alteration. For the first time, she saw a man instead of an invalid, a leader instead of a ward, and even though he still lacked key motor cues, she couldn't help gaping at the change.

The look he'd given her had burned hotter than the fire in her hand.

Cass gave a humorless smile at the memory, especially the part where she later discovered his chem use and threw a fit until he disposed of his entire stash. It never happened again, but despite her hatred for chems, she'd never forgotten that brief glimpse of the person he used to be. A champion marksman, his remaining scattered fans had called him. And after that night, she harbored no doubts that he'd been one to hit every target he'd aimed at.

However, the past was the past, and the former New Mexican gunslinger Callum Gerhardt now led a very different life.

She sometimes wondered what he'd been like back then. Before the widespread impairment and loss of self-sufficiency. Before living a maddening existence trapped within himself. Before becoming unlucky number Six.

Cass could admit to desiring the answer; if not for the curiosity, for the heated gaze seared into her mind.

A unanimous chorus of voices from the foyer jolted her out of her reverie. She heard Lily's loudest of all—"IT'S SO GOOD TO SEE YOU UP AND ABOUT AGAIN, DEARIE! GRANDMA WAS SO WORRIED!"—and failed to make out the others', but she needed only one guess to know the occasion. An unexpected surge of nervousness rose inside her, as she both anticipated and dreaded the results of Callum's intelligence implant. From the frenzied commotion in the next room, she determined that everyone's jubilation either indicated its success or stemmed from relief that he wasn't dead.

She hesitated for a minute to prepare herself. Now that he had woken, the prospect of witnessing his new state wrenched her gut. Up until this point, she hadn't deliberated on how to interact with him on a level other than "special needs." Furthermore, she hadn't considered what to do in the event of a disappointing outcome. What if she walked in there and found the same old Callum? What if it hadn't worked?

…What if it had?

Cass gritted her teeth at her own fidgeting. That scene at the bar replayed in her head, feeding the sudden turbulence rocking through her psyche. How had the implant affected his recent memory? Would he remember how they'd all treated him like a helpless charge to watch over? Had he formed an opinion on it?

Would he be anything like that night at the Aces Theater?

Scoffing, she tried to brush it off, certain he wouldn't catch her off-guard twice, no matter the aftermath of the surgery. Even so, her vision strayed to the refrigerator again. No harm in having one drink prior to the confrontation.

She strode over to the far side of the kitchen, still listening to the chatter in the next room. Rex's happy barks punctuated Arcade's questions and Veronica's ringing laughter. Cass allowed herself a wry grin, glad for Callum's popularity among their friends. She opened the fridge door and leaned in, searching through the unappetizing leftovers for a full bottle of liquor. The volume outside seemed to grow louder and closer, but she ignored it as her brow puckered.

_Where the hell did my last handle of whiskey go?_

A tap on her shoulder drew her gaze back up.

And the breath left her lungs at the impossible sight.

He stood there over the door, posture relaxed with his forearm resting against the freezer. A crystalline clarity gleamed in those dancing green eyes, the cloudiness gone, acuity restored. Shiny blond hair had been washed, cut, and slicked back, revealing his transformed expression, the easy smirk on his lips. His complexion still appeared pallid from the intensive procedure, but a new strength radiated from his recovering frame.

Cass slowly straightened, the motion stiff as she closed the door. Unable to stop staring at him, she floundered for something to say, an effort made harder by that same intense look he directed at her. Only this time, his intact mental capacity compounded the effect. She noted his manner, his amusement, his _cockiness_ in the way he regarded her, and suddenly, she wanted to meet the Callum Gerhardt of gunslinger fame.

A rich baritone of laughter rumbled from deep in his chest.

"You and your damn whiskey, Cass," he declared, a set of dimples dotting his smile. He lifted a hand, which held the missing liquor bottle. "So if I get you a drink, is that the way your heart?"


End file.
